Iowa State High School championship

 

Chapter 1: After Practice

The weight room had that familiar smell of sweat and rubber mats that Jake Morrison had come to love. He racked the barbell after his final set, feeling the satisfying burn in his biceps. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds for eight reps—not bad for a high school senior, especially one carrying the hopes of Valley High's entire football program on his shoulders.

Tomorrow's the championship. State finals. Four years of work comes down to this.

Jake grabbed his towel and wiped the sweat from his face, catching his reflection in the mirrored wall. His arms looked good—really good. All those hours in the gym had paid off. His biceps had that defined peak that made him look older than seventeen, more like the college recruiters expected their prospects to look.

"Nice session, Morrison," called Coach Williams from across the room. "Get some rest tonight. We need you at one hundred percent tomorrow."

"Yes sir." Jake slung his gym bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. The hallways of Valley High were empty now, just the echo of his footsteps on the polished floor. Most of the team had cleared out an hour ago, but Jake always stayed late. Extra reps, extra sets. That's what separated good players from great ones.

The parking lot was nearly deserted, just a few cars scattered under the yellow glow of the security lights. Jake's truck sat alone in the far corner where he always parked it. He was fishing for his keys when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Jake Morrison?"

He turned around. Three men stood about ten feet away, but something about their positioning made his athlete's instincts kick in. They weren't just asking for directions.

"Yeah?" Jake's hand tightened around his keys, threading them between his fingers the way his older brother had taught him.

"We need you to come with us."

"I don't think so." Jake took a step back toward his truck, but there was a fourth man there now, blocking his path.

This is really happening. This is actually happening.

Jake swung at the nearest man, but they were ready for him. A fist caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Another blow landed on his jaw, snapping his head back. He tried to fight, tried to use his strength, but there were too many of them. Hands grabbed his arms, his legs. A knee drove into his stomach and he doubled over, gasping.

They dragged him toward a waiting van, his feet scraping against the asphalt. Jake struggled against their grip, but his vision was blurring from the beating. The van's side door slid open with a metallic screech.

"Get the rope," one of them grunted.

The last thing Jake saw before they shoved him inside was his truck keys glinting on the parking lot pavement where he'd dropped them.

Chapter 2: Bound

Jake's consciousness returned in waves of pain. His head throbbed where they'd hit him, his ribs ached with each breath, but it was his arms that made him gasp awake.

What the hell—

He was sitting on concrete, his back against something cold and hard. A steel rod. His arms were pulled behind him, wrapped around the rod, and bound tight with rope. But it wasn't just his wrists—they'd looped the rope around his biceps too, cinching it so tight that every muscle fiber screamed in protest.

Jesus Christ, my arms.

Jake tried to move, tried to shift position, but the rope bit deeper into his biceps with every motion. The steel rod pressed right into the peak of his muscles—the same biceps he'd been admiring in the mirror just hours ago. All that muscle mass he'd worked so hard to build was now working against him, creating pressure points that made the rope slice into his flesh like wire.

Can't move. Can't get loose. Why are they doing this?

He tested the bonds carefully, trying to find some give, but whoever had tied him knew what they were doing. The rope around his biceps was positioned perfectly to use his own muscle mass as an anchor. Every time he flexed, trying to create space, the rope just cut deeper.

The game. Oh God, the game.

Panic shot through him as the reality hit. The championship was tomorrow. His team needed him. Coach Williams would be expecting him at the team breakfast in—what time was it? How long had he been out?

Jake pulled against the ropes with everything he had, ignoring the way they sliced into his biceps. The pain was incredible, like someone pressing hot knives into his arms, but he had to get free. Had to get to the game.

Come on, come on!

But the harder he struggled, the worse it got. The rope was cutting off circulation, making his hands tingle and go numb. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort and the pain, but the knots held firm.

They knew exactly how to do this. They've done this before.

That thought scared him more than anything else.

Chapter 3: Missing

Where is he?

Marcus Morrison checked his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. Jake was supposed to meet him and his younger son Tyler at Romano's for their traditional pre-game lunch. They'd done this before every important game since Jake made varsity—pizza, trash talk, and Marcus sharing stories from his own playing days at State.

But Jake's chair sat empty, and it was already 12:30.

"Maybe he's just running late," Tyler said, though he didn't sound convinced. Jake was never late. Not for anything that mattered.

Marcus hit Jake's number again. Straight to voicemail.

"This is weird, Dad. Jake always answers his phone."

Meanwhile, across town at Valley High, Coach Williams was staring at his phone in disbelief. The team breakfast was supposed to start in an hour, and Jake Morrison—his team captain, his star player—was nowhere to be found.

This can't be happening. Not today.

Williams had been coaching for twenty-three years, and he'd never had a player just disappear before the biggest game of the season. He'd sent Jake four texts about the final team meeting. All unanswered.

By 2 PM, Marcus was pacing Romano's parking lot, his phone pressed to his ear.

"Honey, have you heard from Jake? No, he never showed up for lunch... What do you mean he's not answering? He always answers for you."

The first real spike of fear hit him then. Jake might ignore texts from teammates, might even blow off coaches when he was focused, but he never ignored his mother. Never.

Tyler emerged from the restaurant, shaking his head. "Manager says he never made a reservation. That's not like him either."

Marcus was already heading for his car. "Something's wrong. We need to check his apartment, the gym, everywhere."

But even as they drove toward Jake's place, Marcus couldn't shake the growing certainty that they weren't going to find him. His son—the one who never missed anything that mattered, who lived his life like clockwork—was gone.

And tomorrow's game was less than eighteen hours away.

Chapter 4: Hours

How long has it been?

Jake had lost track of time completely. The windowless room gave no clues—just concrete walls, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the relentless pressure of the steel rod against his back and biceps.

His arms were on fire. Every shift, every attempt to find a more comfortable position only made the rope bite deeper into his biceps. The muscle mass he'd been so proud of had become his enemy. If his biceps weren't so developed, there wouldn't be this bulge pressing against the steel rod, wouldn't be this perfect anchor point for the rope to slice into.

Should have skipped arm day, he thought bitterly, then immediately felt sick for thinking it.

The rope had worked its way through his shirt hours ago. Now it cut directly into skin, and Jake could feel the warm trickle of blood running down his arms. His biceps were raw, scraped clean in places where the rope had rubbed back and forth with his struggles.

The game starts in six hours. Five hours. Four?

He'd tried everything. Twisting his wrists until they bled. Pulling until his shoulders felt like they might dislocate. Trying to slide down the steel rod, but the rope around his biceps held him fast. Every movement just created new friction, new pain, new bleeding.

Come on, Jake. You're stronger than this. You bench press more than most grown men.

But strength meant nothing here. His powerful biceps, the ones that had driven him through countless workouts, were useless. Worse than useless—they were torturing him.

The worst part was the hope. Every few minutes, Jake would convince himself he felt some give in the rope, some loosening, and he'd struggle with renewed energy. But it was always an illusion. The knots held. The steel rod held. His biceps, swollen now from the constriction, held him trapped like a fly in amber.

They're not coming back. Nobody knows where I am. The team's probably warming up right now.

Jake let his head fall back against the steel rod and closed his eyes. His biceps screamed in protest at even that small movement, the rope cutting a little deeper, drawing a little more blood.

I'm going to die here.

Chapter 5: Forfeit

"We can't wait any longer," Coach Williams said, his voice cracking slightly. The locker room was dead silent except for the sound of cleats shifting on concrete. Thirty-seven players in full gear, ready for the biggest game of their lives, and their captain was nowhere to be found.

This is insane. This doesn't happen.

"Jake Morrison is officially listed as missing," Williams continued. "The police are involved. The FBI is involved. Until we know where he is, until we know he's safe, there's no game."

The silence stretched on. Then Jesse Martinez, Jake's best friend and the team's linebacker, spoke up. "Coach, we can still play. Jake would want us to—"

"No." Williams' voice was firm. "We don't leave anyone behind. Team meeting's over. Go home to your families."

Across town, Marcus Morrison was pacing his living room, his phone pressed to his ear. "What do you mean you found his truck? Where? The school parking lot? Why didn't anyone notice it before?"

Agent Sarah Chen from the FBI's local field office was patient but direct. "Mr. Morrison, we're treating this as an abduction. The vehicle shows signs of a struggle. We've got a BOLO out statewide, and we're coordinating with local law enforcement."

"But the game—"

"Has been forfeited. We're exploring all possibilities, including the theory that your son was taken to prevent him from playing."

Taken to prevent him from playing. The words hit Marcus like a physical blow. Someone had stolen his son to fix a high school football game.

Meanwhile, in a dingy apartment across town, four men stared at a television showing the local news. The headline read: "STATE CHAMPIONSHIP CANCELLED - STAR PLAYER MISSING."

"Goddammit!" Tony Vega threw his beer bottle against the wall, where it shattered. "The game's called off! We don't get paid if there's no game!"

"Shut up, Tony," growled the man they called Russo. "We got bigger problems now. Kid's all over the news. FBI's involved."

"So what do we do with him?"

Russo's eyes were cold. "We take him somewhere they'll never find him. And we make his daddy pay."

The plan had been simple: grab the quarterback, keep him tied up for twenty-four hours, collect their money when Valley High lost the championship. But now everything had gone wrong.

Now they were kidnappers. And Jake Morrison had become worth a lot more than any football bet.

Chapter 6: Deep Woods

The van bounced and lurched over dirt roads, each pothole sending fresh waves of agony through Jake's bound arms. He'd been conscious for the entire ride, listening to the thugs argue in the front seats about what to do next.

They're panicking. That's not good.

When the van finally stopped, Jake heard nothing but silence outside. No traffic. No voices. Just the sound of wind through trees.

"Get him out," Russo ordered.

Rough hands dragged Jake from the van. His legs had gone numb hours ago, and he collapsed onto pine needles and dead leaves. Through the trees, he could see the outline of an old hunting cabin, its windows boarded up, roof sagging with neglect.

Middle of nowhere. Nobody's going to find me here.

They hauled him inside and strung him up by his wrists from a ceiling beam, his toes barely touching the floor. The rope around his biceps was still there, still cutting into the swollen muscle, but now his full weight hung from his shoulders. The pain was unimaginable.

"Get the camera," Russo said. "Time to make some real money."

Tony pulled out a digital camera while another thug wrapped duct tape around Jake's mouth, sealing it tight. Jake tried to struggle, but hanging like this, he had no leverage, no strength left.

They're going to kill me. After they get the money, they're going to kill me.

The camera flash went off again and again. Jake's bloodied face, his rope-burned arms, his body suspended like meat in a slaughterhouse. Each photo was evidence of what they'd done to him, proof for his family that he was still alive.

For now.

"Send these to the old man," Russo said, reviewing the photos on the camera's small screen. "Two million dollars. Tell him he's got twenty-four hours, or his golden boy quarterback becomes fish food."

Jake closed his eyes behind the blindfold they'd tied around his head. His biceps screamed where the rope cut into them. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. But worse than the physical pain was the certainty settling in his gut.

Dad's going to pay. And then they're going to kill me anyway.

Chapter 7: Meat Hook

Can't fight anymore. Can't move. Can't think.

It had been almost two days since they'd strung him up in the cabin. Jake's arms were a bloody mess, the rope having carved deep grooves into his biceps where the swollen muscle pressed against the restraints. His face was a patchwork of bruises from the beating they'd given him for the photos—split lip, blackened eyes, blood crusted in his hair.

I'm not even human anymore. Just meat hanging on a hook.

The delirium came in waves now. Sometimes Jake thought he heard voices outside—his teammates calling his name, searching the woods. Other times he imagined Coach Williams standing in front of him, shaking his head in disappointment.

"You let the team down, Morrison. Four years of work, and you let them down."

But mostly there was just the rage. Pure, crystalline hatred that burned in his chest like acid. Not fear anymore—he was beyond fear. Not hope—that had died hours ago. Just fury at his helplessness, at being reduced to this broken thing suspended from a beam.

If I ever get out of here. If I ever get my hands free.

Jake's fantasies had become specific, detailed. What he would do to Russo. How he would make Tony scream. The exact way he would break the bones of every man who had touched him.

They think I'm finished. They think I'm broken.

His biceps throbbed with every heartbeat, the rope having cut so deep he could feel it scraping against muscle fiber. His shoulders had partially dislocated from supporting his weight for so long. Blood had long since stopped flowing from the worst cuts—his body was shutting down, conserving what little it had left.

But the hatred kept him conscious. Kept him alive.

Let them come back. Let them get close enough.

Jake hung there in the dim cabin, no longer struggling against the ropes, no longer hoping for rescue. Just waiting. Burning with a rage so pure it was almost peaceful.

I'm going to kill them all.

Chapter 8: Rescue

Gunshots. More gunshots. Are they real or just in my head?

Jake's mind drifted in and out of consciousness, the sound of splintering wood mixing with the thunder of his own heartbeat. He'd been hearing rescue scenarios for hours now—his teammates kicking down doors, voices calling his name. All hallucinations. All cruel tricks his dying brain was playing on him.

"Jake! Jesus Christ, Jake!"

That voice sounded like Jesse. His best friend, his linebacker, the guy who'd had his back since middle school. But Jesse wasn't real. None of this was real.

"Cut him down! Now!"

Hands touched his face, gentle but urgent. Jake tried to focus, tried to see through the haze of pain and delirium, but everything was spinning.

"I got you, man. I got you."

Jesse's voice again. Closer now. Jake felt his weight shift as strong arms lifted him up, taking the pressure off his dislocated shoulders. The sound of a knife sawing through rope. The blessed relief as the tension around his biceps finally, finally loosened.

Real. This is real.

Jake collapsed into Jesse's arms as the last of the ropes fell away, and suddenly he was sobbing—great, heaving sobs that shook his broken body. All the terror, all the pain, all the hours of thinking he was going to die came pouring out of him.

"Shh, it's over," Jesse whispered, holding him tight. "We got the bastards. Tommy recognized the cabin from the photos—we've been hunting here for years. We knew exactly where you were."

"FBI! Drop your weapons!"

Agent Chen burst through the cabin door to find Jesse cradling Jake on the floor, while the rest of the Valley High football team stood guard over four wounded men sprawled unconscious in the dirt outside.

"Jesus," Chen breathed, holstering her weapon. "Get that ambulance up here now!"

Jake tried to speak, tried to thank his teammates, but he could only sob harder. Jesse just held him, rocking slightly like Jake was still the scared kid he'd been in seventh grade.

"We don't leave anyone behind," Jesse said quietly. "Never."

Chapter 9: Victory

Marcus Morrison's truck skidded to a halt outside the cabin just as the paramedics were loading Jake into the ambulance. Tyler jumped out before the engine stopped, but Marcus caught his arm.

"Wait. Let them work."

Through the ambulance's open doors, they could see Jake—conscious now, talking weakly to the paramedic checking his vitals. His arms were bandaged, his face swollen and bruised, but he was alive.

"Dad?" Jake's voice was barely a whisper, but Marcus heard it.

"I'm here, son. Tyler's here too. You're safe now."

A week later, Jake sat in the Valley High bleachers, his arms still in slings from the shoulder surgery. The doctors said he'd have full use of them again, but the rope scars around his biceps would be permanent reminders of what he'd survived.

The scoreboard read Valley High 28, Central State 13. His teammates had played like men possessed, dedicating every touchdown, every tackle, every victory cheer to their missing captain.

"Morrison! Get down here!"

Coach Williams was waving him toward the field. The game was over, the championship was theirs, and somehow Jake found himself being helped down from the stands by Jesse and Tyler.

Governor Patricia Hayes stood at midfield with a special trophy—not the team championship, but something else entirely.

"Jake Morrison," she announced over the loudspeaker, "your courage and your teammates' loyalty represent the very best of what athletics can be. It is my honor to present you with this year's State Championship MVP award."

The crowd erupted as Jake's teammates lifted him up—carefully, mindful of his injuries—in the same victory celebration they'd dreamed of for four years. But this time, it meant something different. This time, they were celebrating more than football.

They were celebrating the fact that he was alive to see it.

Jake closed his eyes and felt the weight of thirty-six brothers holding him up, felt the roar of the crowd washing over him, and knew that some victories were worth more than any game.